


Shattered Tea Cups

by OrionHunts



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Damian Wayne Has a Heart, Dick Grayson Has Issues, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Dick Grayson is Not Okay, Dick Grayson speaks french, Dick Grayson-centric, Gen, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Major Illness, Memory Issues, Protective Bruce Wayne, Protective Jason Todd, Protective Tim Drake, Sick Dick Grayson, Unreliable Narrator, no beta we die like robins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:54:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28883490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrionHunts/pseuds/OrionHunts
Summary: It’s a slow process that tears Dick apart.Time becomes irrelevant when days begin to blend into each other. The lapses in his memory don’t seem worrying until he finds himself completing tasks he doesn’t remember starting.The family fails to notice his radio silence as anything unusual until it becomes, quite possibly, too late.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Everyone, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson
Comments: 247
Kudos: 535





	1. Jumbled Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I’m so excited for this multi-chapter story. I hope you enjoy it!

For someone who’s always prepared for disaster, Dick never expected to have sudden lapses of memory, with clouds of haziness fogging his mind. 

Lately, it feels as if he’s looking at life through a smoke machine. As if he’s the puppet and some unknown figure is conducting his actions from above.

Oblivious to his surroundings, Dick’s been acting without thinking. Tuesdays blend into Fridays, afternoon naps turn into night time sleeping. He finds himself eating breakfast in the afternoon and stirring salt into his coffee. Time feels irrelevant and all food tastes the same nowadays.

It feels as if he isn’t himself anymore. _Is he even real?_

Trembling hands lose hold of white porcelain, leaving behind a shattered teacup. 

Huh, that’s odd.

Since when did he decide to drink tea? When did he even brew– no, wait– when did he even _buy_ it?

Shaking his head and dismissing the thoughts, Dick cannot fathom what’s been affecting him as of late. Looking around his apartment, misplaced items litter his home. Balled socks put away in the half-empty plate cabinet, his car keys underneath a dining room chair, newspapers spread across the hallway floor…

Worry sets in like an agonizing plague as Dick realizes he has no recollection of his apartment becoming this… jumbled.

Spilling the crimson water on the tablecloth doesn’t really worry him. No. Alfred always knows how to remove stains if he really wants to salvage it. (It was such an ugly piece of fabric. Who even bought it? Absurd.) But this stained cloth only adds to the mess of his home.

_An Easter-themed tablecloth in January. It’s not even close to any holiday, let alone_ Easter _. Where’d he even find it?_

Prior to this past month (month _s_? year?), Dick could not have named one example of this level of clumsiness. He was, after all, practically the epitome of grace and elegance. 

_Or, well, he had been._

Staring at the broken cup and tea-soaked tablecloth, Dick stands to clean up the shards. 

Maybe he was going crazy? After all, he had been victim to various toxins throughout his entire childhood. Vigilantism does come with a price.

But no, that really wouldn’t make sense. 

Why would he be the crazy one? Bruce had been in the business longer than him, Jason had been through more physical trauma… Really, Dick has nothing to worry about… Or, at least, that’s what he’s saying to convince himself.

Subconsciously, Dick moves to clean up the splinters of porcelain. A piece snags his finger, leaving fat drops of blood to mix with the tea.

Of all days he decides to drink tea, this happens. What a mess.

He doesn’t even _like_ tea. 

Or maybe he does? Dick can’t seem to remember.

A knock at the door breaks his thoughts. Three quick raps, tap, tap, tapping. 

Is he expecting guests? Maybe. 

Opening the door, Dick stands facing an empty hallway. Peeling green and white wallpaper greet him. Mildew winking and flies decorating the ceiling.

Waiting— _for what? He doesn’t know_ — Dick stands there for several moments before turning back to his disordered apartment.

Moving to put scattered dishes away, Dick considers how lucky he really has been his entire life.

He’s never really had a career-ending injury, like Barbara. Nor has he ever actually died on the job, like Jason. 

To be quite honest, he’s one of the lucky ones.

Blinking, Dick looks down and finds that he’s walking alongside Halyard Street. 

Odd. He cannot seem to recall putting on his shoes and leaving. (Well, maybe that has to do with the fact that he’s barefoot.)

_Vaguely, Dick wonders if this has happened before._

Rocks and pebbles dig into the heels of his feet. Soot-colored dirt stains his soles and mud cakes his ankles. 

His hands grab at his stomach, suddenly. If only to verify that he remembered to put on a shirt that morning.

_What else could he have forgotten?_

Turning around, birds chirp and pedestrians walk by him without a care in the world. They must think he recently broke out of the looney bin! No shoes in January. How absurd.

Peace and quiet fill the air… Well, except for the couple arguing across the street. What a shame, Dick remembers how passionate relationships can be. He can almost taste the bitterness that his arguments with Barbara brought. How he misses the fire they shared… Maybe he should call her, it has been a while.

_But that isn’t right. They had just spoken last night. Or maybe it was last week?_

Finding himself off the street and in his apartment complex, Dick notices the “out of order” sign on the elevator. A sigh escapes his lips, but internally he’s grateful for the extra few moments to take in his surroundings. Except, after trailing his hand on the chipping gray railing, walking slowly up the dimly lit staircase for only a second or two, Dick finds himself once more in front of the tea-stained tablecloth.

_Odd. He had thought that he cleaned that up._

And so, he finds himself waddling up the cloth and throwing it in his hamper. 

It’s fine. Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all is wrong. 

_Maybe he should call Bruce instead of Barbara. Maybe he would know what’s wrong?_

But after patting himself down in search of his phone, it takes him a moment to realize he doesn’t have it. It could be anywhere, really. In the apartment, somewhere in the street… The possibilities are endless.

With a hope of finding it and a vague feeling of indifference, Dick shuffles around the apartment, flipping cushions and upturning books. He winds up finding it in an empty flower vase. Not where he would typically store an electronic device, but it could’ve been left in a worse spot, he supposes. 

Standing there in triumph for having found it, Dick realizes that he cannot seem to remember why he needed it. 

After staring blankly at the cracked screen— _when did it become cracked?_ — Dick idly tosses it onto the couch. A couch full of rips. But it’s always been ripped, right?

_Maybe he’ll remember why he needed it in a few minutes._

Kicking an empty water bottle to the side, Dick strides across the room to look outside of the window.

With the sun out and clear sky, it would be a nice day to visit the park. When was the last time he visited Melville Park? Too long if he can’t remember. 

Flickering lights dance across the room before turning off completely. A circuit’s either been blown, or the electric bill went unpaid. 

That’s fine. Recently, Dick had read about the benefits of living with all-natural light.

Or maybe he read about the benefits of all-natural food.

Nonetheless, Dick smiles as he goes to find a replacement light build. In the closet, batteries greet him and rumpled towels line the shelves, but there’s no lightbulb box in sight. 

Oh. A sticky note dons the third shelf, with “need light bulbs'' written in red ink. Supposedly it serves as a reminder for him to buy more. Clearly, it failed at that. 

Natural light. It’s fine. It’s good. It’s okay.

Suddenly the sky’s dark. Suddenly he cannot see his hand mere inches away from his face. Suddenly, days continue blending together, and it escapes him to purchase more lightbulbs.

Suddenly, Bruce is at his door and the teacup is still shattered on his table.


	2. Un, Deux, Trois

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ringing invades his ears.
> 
> Someone redecorated his bathroom.
> 
> And suddenly, Dick finds himself away from home.
> 
> One, two, three. 
> 
> Everything’s alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally wrote the third chapter before this one. Super annoying, but I guess that just means I have more time to make it better now.
> 
> Anyway! I’m aiming to update once a week. Maybe more, maybe less.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this! :)

Bruce isn’t there.

And so Dick stands with his door wide open to an empty hallway. He must’ve heard wrong.

_ Hearing noises out of nothing, hidden people invade his head. Chattering voices fill the hallways and knocking doors alert him of no one visiting. _

A sudden surge of sorrow claws at Dick’s heart. Because, of course, Bruce doesn’t want to see him. Of course, no one’s there to check upon him. (Of course.)

He tries to focus on what  _ is  _ there. Striped, green wallpaper— or would it be green striped wallpaper?— peeling at the top. Matted, beige carpet tickles his feet. (Green and beige. Disgusting combination.) It feels rough and dirty under his bare skin, but it stabilizes his thoughts if only for a moment. Spilled soda stains stand out to him as well, and muddy boot prints show signs of  _ someone _ having been here.

(Of course, it isn’t Bruce. Isn’t Jason. Isn’t Tim. Isn’t Damian.)

Then again, Dick should remember that he’s not the only one to live in Blüdhaven. In his apartment complex. In this  _ hallway _ .

He should try to keep that in mind. (And so he finds his trembling hands jotting that down on a sticky note.) Counting to three.  _ One. Two. Three. _ He clicks the pen on each count, collecting his frantic thoughts.

An array of sticky notes already line his walls. Pinks, greens, and blues decorate his apartment with his messy sprawl adding to the design. 

He wonders, for a brief moment, if his favorite color’s green or yellow. (Or blue or purple.) It should be an easy answer, but he just can’t  _ decide _ . 

Dick’s spasming fingers lose hold of the pen he holds, causing it to clatter on the floor. Dick knows for certain that that shouldn’t have happened. No. An acrobat cannot afford to be jittery. Twitchy. Clumsy.

No. That results in missed flips and pancaked bodies.

Suddenly, images of his parents' own crushed bodies flash before his eyes. ( _ Human pancakes. _ ) His mind supplies him with the images of blood and death, which grace his memory far too often nowadays. Shaking his head, disappointment settles in his stomach.

The stench of death meets his nose and his ears ring.  _ Ring, ring, ring. _

Ringing. It doesn’t stop, but Dick finds himself ignoring it in favor of composing himself for a brief moment. (Except the ringing  _ doesn’t stop _ .) It drills on and on, and suddenly he’s annoyed himself for allowing a pen to bring on this wave of grief.

Nothing’s ringing. He shouldn’t be hearing something when nothing’s wrong.

While he sits there with calloused palms covering his burning eyes, Dick’s phone continues to vibrate unbeknownst to him. One. Two. Three. ( _ Ring, ring, ring. _ )

It dances on the table, thrumming and buzzing. Not bothering to even so much as glance at it, Dick leans back on the broken-down couch, feeling too detached to even care. Sitting alone in his empty apartment, the lights remain off, and his thoughts continue invading his mind.

On the other side of the state, Tim glares down at his own phone as he dials Dick. Already having tried four times with no success, desperation begins to eat at his heart and his throat closes up. He feels a warm, throbbing ache in his chest, and anxiety hums through his veins.

“Maybe try again,” Jason offers, his own face taut with concern. 

Tim finds himself nodding, fingers automatically pressing Dick’s number and dials again. To no avail, there’s not a change in Dick’s response.

When Nightwing dropped off the face of the planet, the family hadn’t concerned themselves. No. Nightwing disappears all the time. Hidden missions, undercover identities, and so forth. But radio silence like this? Unheard of. After the first few months, the family usually receives some  _ sign  _ of life from him, some  _ warning _ . Not this time. No.

Dick missed Christmas.

Maybe that shouldn’t be the only sign that something’s wrong… But Dick and his persistent need to suffocate the family with love never misses an opportunity to do so. 

Worry eats away at Tim and Jason, both of which are suddenly realizing the gravity of the situation. 

Tinsel, plastic bells, and faux snow had taken the manor over by storm, and their Big Bird hadn’t so much as given them a sign of life. He hadn’t called or left even as much as a hidden message. 

Meeting each other’s eyes solemnly, Jason nods.

“I’ll go to Blüd. Don’t let Bruce know.”

The anchor in his heart shifts, letting him breathe properly, if only for a moment. 

“Call if you need anything, Jay.” 

Without answering verbally, Jason nods and shifts his weight off of the counter. The two had been sitting together at the Manor, huddled together underneath the counter lights. Nothing other than Tim’s phone taking their attention.

Now, Jason stalks out of the kitchen with urgency, on his way to leave Gotham entirely to look for their lost bird. Trepidation pounds in his chest as Jason’s suspicions lead him to his brother.

While the pair worry for the lost birdie, Dick finds himself sitting alone in his bathroom. Strangely clean, he perches on the bathtub, enamored with broken fragments of the mirror.

In his hand, the reflective surface feels smooth to touch, though the broken pieces leave trails of blood on his palms. Just as the (still-broken) teacup on his table had yesterday. (Or was that two days ago? Last week?)

Lost in his thoughts, Dick wonders how the mirror shattered. A million shiny pieces decorate the small room, adding a feeling of life to the dim space.

Rubbing his thumb on the surface, Dick quietly counts to three before dropping it and picking up another piece. While an odd ritual, it's one he cannot seem to stop. 

_ One, two, three. Un, deux, trois. Eins, zwei, drei. _

Shutting his eyes, Dick opens them to find himself sitting on his couch instead, with Jason pacing in front of him.

“—lights off, no excuse for—“

Dick blinks again and focuses on Jason’s pounding boots—thud, thud, thudding— in front of the upturned coffee table and piles of haphazardous clothing.

Suddenly, Jason’s in his face. Snapping two fingers together. (Only once. Not thrice.)

“Anyone home?” Jason asks, waving a hand in front of his face. “I’ve been talking for, like, ten minutes now.” Eyebrows drawn together, his tongue sticks out of his mouth angrily. Dick immediately sharpens his gaze onto that. 

_ Adorable. Jay’s frustrated face always tugs at his heart; his frown and faux anger lose their effect because of it. His sucked in checks don’t exactly help instill fear into others either. _

“I’m right here,” Dick insists. Blinking back to focus. (Un, deux, trois.)

Releasing his breath, Jason slowly shuts his eyes and tries to reign in his frustration. His hand taps his knee as he composes himself. 

“Dick, what’s going on? Your house looks like a tornado blew through it. You completely fell off the grid. I–” Jason pauses, sucks in a breath, and says, “This isn’t like you. You look like shit. I– Do you know what a shower is?”

Tilting his head, Dick wants to smile. Jason’s concerned about him, that’s cute. Dick cannot imagine why he might be though. He’s perfectly fine. So what his apartment is a little messy? Not everyone can afford a butler and cleaning staff.

Forgetting to verbalize his thoughts, Dick sits there silently for a moment too long as Jason suddenly straightens himself, frustrated once more.    
  


“That’s it. I’m taking you back to the Manor. There at least someone can babysit you.”

Hand on Dick’s elbow, Jason all but drags Dick to his bedroom. 

  
Sighing, Jason once more calms himself down, before telling Dick, “Pack what you need, but we’re leaving now.”

Shaking his head, Dick wonders why he needs to pack. He wonders why Jason’s even in his room.

Eyeballing his brother’s closed-off stance, Dick chooses to not verbalize his thoughts and instead grabs a semi-empty backpack and shoves a handful of clothing in it. His hand brushes something hard in his drawer though. Pulling it out, Dick’s slightly stunned to see a shard of porcelain in his hand. A broken teacup.

Odd. Since when did he own any teacups?

Before he has time to process his discovery, Jason’s dragging Dick out the door and onto his motorcycle.

He’s talking to Dick fast and rushed, but Dick can’t hear over the ringing in his ears.

One, two, three, and all he sees is blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the by? The sentence fragments are purposeful. Grammar restricts creativity!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this! Please drop a comment if you can. I love reading all of your thoughts and opinions. :) 
> 
> I appreciate you all!
> 
> One person guessed his illness spot on! I didn’t want to confirm or deny anyone, but it really surprised me seeing someone comment it. Hint? It’s super rare. (But young adults do catch this illness.) I saw some creative guesses that I didn’t even think of myself. All of them are super interesting. I like the carbon monoxide idea. That’d make a really dramatic story, so someone tag me if you ever write or read one. (Actually, comment any recs of Dick. It could be your own too. Self-promote! I need more reading material.)
> 
> Xoxo, Orion.


	3. Against the Clock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Realization dawns on Dick’s family that not everything is as it appears. 
> 
> The clock’s ticking away.

Dick hasn’t called home in weeks. 

In the back of his head, Bruce isn’t surprised when he realizes this, and it takes another few days for concern to really blossom within Bruce’s chest. 

It begins subdued, like an ache that he can’t quite shake. Gradually, as he really considers the situation, the worry grows and starts distracting him from his work– both his night job and during the day at Wayne Enterprise. 

Dick’s not exactly a homebody, nor is he much of a mother hen (despite what some people claim). But he does care, and Bruce can’t seem to recall a month Dick went without calling or a holiday he ever missed– excluding when “business” interfered.

Maybe it’s too early to tell— maybe this is why Dick insists that Bruce doesn’t treat him like an adult— but Bruce desperately wants to call his eldest. He finds his hand inches away from dialing Dick’s number on multiple occasions before stopping himself. 

Before he builds up enough courage to ever hit dial, Bruce finds Dick sitting idly at the dining room table. Chatting with Alfred, happy as a clam. 

The feelings of unease retreat, as does Bruce from the room. Quietly walking away, he feels calmer than he had been, though the concern doesn’t entirely leave him.

While Bruce feels at ease, days continue to swirl together for Dick. 

One moment, he’s slung over Jason’s shoulder as he thunders down Dick’s apartment building’s steps– the elevator’s broken? That’s a shame– and the next moment he’s locked away in a strange room.

_He’s in Gotham, at the Manor. Not some random room. He’s not even locked in it._

Grey blankness fills his childhood bedroom. With the curtains drawn closed and lights switched off, Dick lays curled on his side. Hands clutching the threadbare blankets, Dick slackly rubs his thumb in circles. With rough stitching semi-grounding him to the present, he counts to three in his head. (Un, deux, trois.)

Unbeknownst to him, his three brothers gather in his room. Jason’s hulking form squeezing in himself to appear small and unthreatening.

_Adorable_. Dick loves how gentle Jason can be when he cares to try.

“Dickie, buddy, everything alright?” Jason asks quietly, crouching beside Dick’s unmoving form. “It’s been a few days, maybe try sitting up?”

The voice swims in Dick’s ears, but he can’t seem to register what Jason means. He had only just lain down.

Quiet mummers come from the doorway where Damian and Tim stand huddled together. Whispering about terrible what-if scenarios.

“I read that depression—“

“— possibility of bra—“

Cutting in and out, Dick doesn’t understand or even care what the voices say. _In and out_ of focus. Swirling in spirals. 

A rough hand settles on Dick’s shoulder. Gripping onto him for near dear life. Falling victim to unconsciousness, Dick lets the darkness swallow him whole as the stranger’s hand holds him afloat.

* * *

It's night time before Dick remembers where he is again. Wayne Manor. His home (more or less). 

Situated in his bedroom, Dick groggily sits up and picks at his blanket’s threads. Shadows discolor the blanket’s reds and blues, but Dick takes comfort in knowing his surroundings ~~for this brief moment of clarity~~. 

Huh, he must’ve stayed the night. Odd, but not unusual. 

The last few days had been a blur ( _no surprise there_ ), but Dick feels semi-peaceful. Leaning back, he takes in the calm peacefulness of his room. 

Head pounding, it feels like a band is compressing his skull, tight and throbbing. Must be dehydration. Maybe a hangover? Before Dick can really diagnose his ailment, soft piano music infiltrates his room, interrupting his groggy wake-up.

Humming, Dick slowly slips out of bed and wanders into the hallway, where he finds Tim cautiously leaving his own room. Quietly shutting his door, Dick turns to see that Tim’s spotted him too and stands a few feet away, waiting to talk with him.

“I didn’t actually expect the Demon Brat to _learn_ piano,” Tim complains half-heartedly. “I had thought he was all talk, no game.”

Nodding, Dick half-agrees, not recalling the piano discussion Tim had with Damian. (Not that he even really processed the piano music as having been real.) Tim side-eyes Dick at his lack of response— or maybe for something else— and begins to walk slowly, making sure that Dick matches pace.

It takes a few moments for Dick to remember to say, “He’s not all that bad.”

Plastering a smile on his face, Tim chuckles slightly at Dick’s expected response. The laugh sounds fake, even to Dick, and Tim’s eye twitches. (Tim’s acting off, probably because of stress, Dick guesses. Work must be tough, this time of year...) Shaking his head, Tim continues heading down to the foyer. 

Red, velvety carpet cushions their steps as they casually walk side-to-side. Oblivious to Tim’s inconspicuous glances, Dick finds himself counting the individual spots on the floor. A daunting task, given the carpet’s relatively complex pattern.

Lost in his thoughts, Dick hums as Tim taps his fingers restlessly. Something clearly eating away at Tim’s conscience, but Dick fails to comment again and neglects to offer any comfort. 

Tim continues tapping. Dick continues counting. Damian continues playing the piano. 

Repetition. Repetition. Repetition.

It’s easy to say simple statements and have them stick until suddenly it isn’t easy.

Because instead of finding himself with Tim in the foyer, with Damian practicing piano, Dick finds himself flipping on the training mats down in the Bat Cave.

Dry feet pounding against polyethylene foam. Athletic tape stuck to bruised wrists. Black spandex restricting achy legs. (No shirt.)

_No shirt._ Dick forgot a shirt again. Or maybe this was intentional? 

Hopefully, it looks intentional. 

Vaguely, Dick spots Bruce’s silhouette across the room. (God, he cannot have Bruce thinking he’s an exhibitionist _again_ .) Shadows envelop his massive form, shrouding the Dark Knight and his intense glare. ( _Calm down, Mark Twain. Bruce isn’t_ that _mysterious._ )

Sighing, Dick flops on the mats. He can feel the lactic acid in his legs already, letting him know that he just finished an excruciating exercise. Internally, Dick’s thankful that he can at least trust his muscles when it feels like his brain is failing him. _Stop. Paranoia won't help. Nothing’s wrong!_

Rather than stew in his own thoughts, Dick stands and gallivants from the training mats to where Bruce sits in front of a cluttered desk. Flopping down on a chair beside Bruce, Dick props his feet dramatically in front of Bruce’s computer.

“Hello, hello.”

Without glancing up, Bruce hands Dick a file and hums a greeting. Dick knows the look Bruce wears on his face. Serious. Grave. Something’s brewing in Gotham and Dick doesn’t know if he should feel happy or annoyed that he happened to be in town for it.

Peeking into the files, Dick recognizes the case for something he’d seen on the news recently. 

(Can’t remember what he ate last— _if_ he ate— but he can remember seeing violent crime in the news.) 

Supposedly there’s a huge human trafficking scheme going on over by Gotham Harbor. While the news never said so, Dick suspects that the Beretti Family has a heavy hand in the current… crimes. (Critical thinking? _Checkmate_.)

Trembling in his chair, Dick’s fingers twitch and lose hold of the files. Annoying. But it’s still not the worst part of his morning. 

(Just hours earlier his blender had slipped right off the counter. Spilling chunky raspberry smoothie _everywhere_... But then again, that might’ve happened yesterday? Actually, that might’ve been a few days ago.) 

Having seen Dick’s slip-up, Bruce raises an eyebrow, asking, “Everything alright?”

Trying to look composed, Dick nods twice and smiles. Not showing too many teeth, of course. He doesn’t want Bruce to think he’s a _maniac_ , of all things.

“Just peachy.” 

Aiming for an airy, light response, Dick shoots a little too nonchalant and lands on absentminded. Grimacing internally, Dick forcefully shrugs his shoulders to mitigate his tone.

Great. Bruce must think... something. Dick’s not quite sure what Bruce knows or assumes, but he is, after all, “the world’s greatest detective” (according to The Gotham Gazette, at least).

Bruce holds his stare for a moment too long before asking, “So, what do you say?”

Say? Say on what? How long has he had these files? How long has Bruce been talking to him?

“I agree.”

Smart. Leave a safe, simple response, don’t let him know you have no idea what you’re talking about. 

“Odd. You agree with human trafficking?”

Fuck. Abort mission. How can we spin this to not—

“Of course, I...?”

Code Red. He said something dumb. Great. Fantastic. Genius move right here.

Having looked down to re-read a report, Bruce meets Dick’s eyes again. His eyebrows furrow in thought. The dark light of the cave highlights his wrinkles; old age really has been creeping upon him. Bruce’s handsome as always, but circles ring his eyes and lines dance around his mouth. Some would call them smile lines, but Dick knows better. A bat doesn’t have much to smile about. Not really. Dick likes to think he did, once upon a time. But years spent working as Robin and eventually as Batman has since killed his hope. Sure, some of the time spent in spandex and kevlar was fun, but his days have progressively gotten worse and worse. 

_Whatever._ Out with the negative thoughts. Dick shakes his head before glancing down. The files are nowhere to be seen. Instead, Damian holds his hand. Squished together, their knees press against each other and buildings whirl past them. 

Are they trapped in a small box? Walls surround them with a low ceiling hovering above their heads. That doesn’t make sense. No. So what has chipped leather seats and moves?

Blinking hazily, Dick lazily says, “Rollercoaster?” Lacking a filter, he doesn’t really mean to voice his guess aloud.

Tim, apparently sitting in front of him, shoots him a cautious glance.

“Dick,” he says slowly, “We’re on our way to see Leslie.”

Humming, Dick remembers Leslie fondly. Her office always is so _warm_.

Damian leans in closer to Dick. 

Still young, his small frame doesn’t take up much room. Having Bruce as his biological father, Dick can already foresee Damian’s future size. Strong. A force to be reckoned with.

Damian must need a check-up. Gotta make sure that he’s going through puberty smoothly or something.

Upfront in the car, Jason presses the gas pedal, speeding the car faster and faster. Every time he peers through the front mirror and sees Dick’s blank expression, it feels as if a lead ball sinks lower and lower in his stomach. 

Blüdhaven might need Nightwing, but Jason knows his family needs Dick more. He should’ve realized that weeks ago when Dick had holed himself up in his apartment.

Feeling a gap already, Jason wishes that he had taken Dick to the doctor’s immediately after witnessing his odd actions and seeing his apartment in a state of pandemonium. 

Odd. Jason can say that a million times without ever formally addressing why Dick concerns him. 

It isn’t his newfound eccentric actions or occasional absentminded blankness. 

No. 

It’s the complete flip in personalities.

_Dick Grayson and his flips._ An acrobat at heart, he certainly does love switching it up on people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The diagnosis is coming soon! Exciting news!
> 
> As always, comments and general feedback is much appreciated! It definitely helps remind me to write this.
> 
> Thanks so much!


	4. Flying Birds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some days, Dick feels like he can fly.
> 
> Other days, nothing in the world feels right.

Some days, Dick feels weightless.

Floating. Buzzing with energy. 

( _Dick feels like he has episodes like this too frequently. Flying like Superman, emptier than some unknown void._ )

Some days, nothing in the world feels right.

_  
(With a mouth full of dust and eyes dry from smoke, Dick feels bugs crawl underneath him. Itching. Skittering. Burning.) _

Days like this, a sinking feeling in his chest— heavier than an anchor, colder than ice— spreads throughout his body. An emptiness draining every and all energy he has left.

The feeling that everyone and everything in life is irrelevant.

Threading his fingers through his hair, Dick tries to focus on reality and not… abstract feelings. Imaginary sentiments shouldn’t occupy his time like this.

But then again, food doesn’t taste right either.

Sugar’s too sweet, broccoli’s too bitter. He can’t bring himself to enjoy eating, but sometimes he can't seem to stop.

Dick’s experiencing one of _those_ days.

Breathing exercises never help. Counting– _un deux, trois_ – in rhythm just seems to waste his time. 

There’s no rhyme or reason as to why Dick feels… sad. It just happens.

Lost in thought, on days like this, Dick often feels like he’s drifting with no tether for reality.

It’s scary. 

(Morbidly, Dick wishes he would drift off completely. Totally and absolutely float away from his problems.)

Exhaling heavily, Dick drags a hand across his face to wake up. _Focus, Dick. Take note of your surroundings. Do something. Anything._

Glancing up, Dick tries to center his attention on what hangs above him. 

Brown panels– five of them– spin in circles. Whirling around Dick’s head, the base of it shaking every so often. Just underneath the fan, two black and white paintings sit tacked to the wall in an almost perfect position. _Almost, of course. One’s slightly crooked to the left._

Dick sits twitching on a green suede couch. His legs jittering up and down. Buzzing like a broken alarm clock.

Suddenly, an older woman breaks his thoughts, asking, “Richard, can you repeat what I just said?”

Sitting across from him carefully poised, the woman’s clearly trying to remain neutral and expressionless. But Dick notices the taut expression between her eyes. The pull of her lips. 

  
_Chapped_. That’s a shame. Dick might have some lip balm in his pocket. Surely she would appreciate borrowing his.

Fumbling around, he flips open his pockets searching for it. Humming and heedless to the woman. ( _Dr. Thomkins_.)

Dick doesn’t notice as she steps out of the room.

Leslie’s heels click underneath her on the smooth tiled floor. Opening the door and shutting it smoothly, she finds herself face-to-face with Dick’s three brothers.

Sitting rigidly, Tim’s head snaps to look at her. Beside him, while almost completely still, Damian’s legs tap in beat with the wall clock. A sketchbook lays open on his lap. But with eyes glazed over, he’s clearly too nervous to focus on drawing. 

Both turn to her, but it’s Jason that moves first.

He immediately asks, “So, what’s the prognosis?”

Glancing at the two younger boys, Leslie turns to Jason, admitting, “We need to run a few more tests. It’s hard to tell without them.” 

Silence greets her for a brief moment.

With a sigh and brief nod, Jason asks, “So no toxin? Poison? Drugs?” 

While speaking, Jason’s frown pulls down, but his face immediately relaxes again. _No time to let anyone know you actually care._

“Tt, don’t accuse Richard of taking drugs, Todd.” 

_An addiction would call for rehab. Toxins and poison would call for detoxing. What options are there for unknown illnesses?_

Throwing a hand in the air, Jason quips, “Have a better guess, Demon Spawn?” 

_A fox in the henhouse. Always one to cause trouble. Except when he doesn’t. Except when he cares. Except when he wants to help._

“Boys.”

Immediately, all heads turn to Leslie. Jason and Damian’s short-lived staring contest comes to a quick halt.

“Bruce has to be made aware of this. It could be nothing, but we have to treat this as more than your night business.”

Complaints and disagreements cloud her office with the boys arguing and protesting against that. 

On the other side of the wall, Dick faintly hears the boys’ loud complaints. It doesn’t transfer well, of course. He feels as if his head is underwater. Suffocating on nothing and everything at once.

Words float in and out of Dick’s ears. Unable to comprehend what they’re saying, he wonders who’s sick. (Hopefully, it’s not one of the baby birds.)

Distracting him from his brief concern, Leslie’s exotic fish tank begins to enamor his thoughts. Teal and blue fish swim. The filter bubbles. _Popping_. 

Dick finds his hand in the tank, feeling around trying to grab a fish. (Would Leslie let him take one home? He’s great at taking care of animals.) 

The water reaches his elbow, dampening the sleeve of his shirt. With it clinging to his body, Dick ignores the sensation in favor of chasing the fish with his fingers.

Suddenly, hands grip Dick’s shoulders and push him back onto the couch before he manages to grab one. The cushions sink underneath his sudden weight, and the roughness of suede break his fixation.

Quietly, a sugary sweet voice says, “I have a few recommendations for established neurologists.” Rising and falling in pitch, the sound barely registers to Dick. Humming and fear distract him. 

Does Damian have a concussion? His poor baby brother. Tears well in Dick’s eyes at the thought, and immediately, Damian pushes himself into his arms, saying something that Dick doesn’t quite catch. It doesn’t really matter, so long as his baby bird is alright.

(He’d have to talk to Bruce about incorporating a helmet in the Robin costume. Surely it isn’t safe fighting crime with an unprotected head– especially for a growing boy.)

The kind lady and strange man continue discussing something about a Bruce and healthcare facilities, both now blatantly staring at him. 

With Damian in Dick’s arms, Jason observes his uncoordinated actions. With an albatross around the neck, misery shines on Dick’s face and his twitching limbs become more prominent against Damian’s still form. 

Solemnly, Leslie and he watch him openly. 

Seconds tick along. Sobs darken the room. Shivering limbs in a heated office.

“For now, log his symptoms. Anything and everything should be written down, Jason,” Leslie instructs. “Mood swings, lack of appetite–” 

“Yeah, got it.”

Abruptly, Jason feels as though the world’s collapsing. Not all birds can fly, but he had hoped that this one could. ( _The original Robin. The best of them all. Nightwing_.)

* * *

It’s the hospital that sends Dick spiraling without stop.

White walls. Antiseptic in the air. Plastic chairs at the base of every window. Nursing carts clogging the hallway. The tiled floors…

He’s been here before. Gotham General. Located in the center of the city. 

(Everyone’s been here at some point. Facing down guns and violence every night practically guarantees that.)

Leading up to the building, trash decorates the stone pathway and grass grows in between each tile. Blocking the entrance, sobbing families sing for pedestrians. _Crying reminds Dick of the long nights he spent worrying about Damian and Tim. For whatever reason, the why he would do so evades him._

Jason’s hand presses into Dick’s back, pushing him forward every time he stops to observe random sights. Pressing. Pushing. Propelling.

A seagull flies above. Squawking. Flapping wings.

_Nightwing’s costume should have wings._

Dick imagines the feeling of flying. The rush of air underneath his ~~wings~~ _arms_. Everyone below him. Tiny. Pinpricks in his vision. 

Oh, how the sun would burn. But Dick likes to think he’d enjoy it. Molten beams scorching his skin. ( _Maybe his flesh would peel off to reveal feathers._ )

Would the feathers be blue? Or would he reflect the red and yellow Robin suit?

Would he burn to death and fall? Humans can’t fly, after all.

“Bruce’s meeting us inside,” someone says to his right. Not the man pushing him along. No. He’s busy twisting his face in circles. (Dick thinks he’s trying to spiral his face into a snail’s shell.)

A phone rings. Someone answers it. And a doctor is suddenly standing in front of him with a penlight. 

With the window drawn shut, Dick can’t see any of the birds outside. _A seagull in the middle of Gotham? Sure, it’s New Jersey, but…_

“—blood tests, just to rule out other possibilities—“

Something pricks Dick’s arm. Cold. Uninvited.

“Recent sleep patterns? Have you noticed—“

A hand presses to his forehead. Soft. Moisturized. Dick’s hands are soft now. _Or they feel soft, at least._

“— run a few tests. Memory and cognitive—“

Knees. Pressing. (Dick remembered pants today, thankfully. Or maybe the other man remembered for him.)

“Let’s not rush to anything too drastic here, no need for an MRI or PET scans yet.”

Someone argues. A few someones argue. Money’s brought up. _Who funded this hospital?_ Dick knows he didn’t. 

Birds cannot fund hospitals, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve written the last chapter a dozen times now.
> 
> I almost made it so his diagnosis was never revealed, but then I realized how lame that would be. Especially since someone(s) guessed it on the nose already. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Beautiful Irregularities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Impossible truths begin to come to light. 
> 
> Dick tries to relearn independence, but his brothers remain intent on becoming his shadow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went to the gym at 2pm, right? Just did some cardio and lifted, as ones does. As I’m leaving at about 3:20pm, my friend texts our groupchat asking, “are you guys coming today?”. (Direct copy and paste.)
> 
> Suffice to say, I didn’t know we had practice today.
> 
> So, obviously, I leave the gym to go to our (2ish hour) outdoor track practice in shorts and a t-shirt. The track has a foot of snow with one lane shoveled clear, and it was below freezing temperature-wise.
> 
> I’m still cold.

Birds sing, and the clouds pirouette. 

Alone on the highway, Dick shakily balances on a motorcycle. 

Unable to resist the temptation to borrow it from the strange car room (garage?), impulsive thoughts had moved his hands.

  
So, Dick now finds himself miles away from the imposing Manor, perching on a seat full of cracks and chips. 

The imperfect irregularities of the bike ( _Batcycle?)_ bring Dick comfort. 

In the back of his mind, he almost remembers memories of long nights riding on it through Gotham with ~~his father~~ Bruce. Long passed sweltering summer nights blend into frigid winter snowfalls, and Dick can’t seem to focus on any sensation in particular. 

With his foot steadily pressing the gas pedal, Dick finds himself speeding away from Gotham and its negativity. _From his unreliable memories and the sense of knowing all of nothing._

A vibrating sense of satisfaction burns within him. _Are there butterflies fluttering in the pit of his stomach? Can butterflies live within people?_ Finally away from ~~the strange man~~ Jason following his every step, Dick feels a surge of independence at embarking on this lonesome adventure.

Dick tries to recall the past few days (weeks?) where Jason had insisted on following him everywhere. If Jason wasn’t trailing him, it would be Tim, Bruce, Alfred… _Anyone and everyone following his every move._

Independence feels like a foreign memory. 

Palms on fire and a shaking heart, Dick leans forward to take in the morning’s calm serenity. It’s such a beautiful day to just drive. To just forget his family’s claustrophobic actions.

Blue sky. Clear air. Happy thoughts.

Nausea overwhelms him, as always, but the beautiful weather surely cancels out everything gone weary in his life.

Potholes decorate the gravel road, and Dick narrowly misses hitting a guard rail as an oriole chirps overhead. 

Orange belly. Dark feathers. Beautiful. _(Beau, bonito, schön.)_ How could he not notice the bird? It practically demands his full attention.

Still distracted, Dick peers into the side mirror. But his reflection looks… wrong. Off. Different. _Who’s sitting in his car?_

His eyes look too deep, with bags sagging underneath them. 

Hair lays flat on his head. Limp. Lifeless. 

Since when did his nose bend to the left? ( _Has it always been broken? Did he recently break it?_ )

Exhaling, Dick looks down at his hands. 

For once in his life, they’re not calloused. 

When was the last time he practiced gymnastics? Ventured out as Nightwing? _Could he even call himself an acrobat anymore? A vigilante? A hero?_  
  
Rubbing palms together, Dick realizes that he has to fix his mistakes. (While he doesn’t remember what mistakes exist for him to fix, Dick knows there must be plenty.)

With certainty, Dick does know that venturing into Blüdhaven won’t solve anything. Deep in his heart, he feels the pull to leave already. Orioles overhead remind him of life’s beauty, but his broken reflection tells him not everything can be beautiful.

A honking horn breaks his thoughts. The stoplight blinks from yellow to red. _He completely missed the green light._ When did he break and stop though? 

Another honk beeps, but before Dick hears it, he’s stumbling through his apartment building’s hallway.

Sticky notes remain everywhere, having taken over his apartment months ago, and overturned furniture blocks his path. But already, Dick can only think about leaving Blüdhaven.

With the sun out and no snow on the ground, Dick feels as though he has nothing to worry about. Gotham’s calling for him again, and at least Dick’s self-aware enough to answer it.

* * *

Frustrated, it had taken a few too many hours away from the Manor for Jason to lose Dick. He had expected Tim to have an eye on him, but just his luck, Tim had had to make an appearance at an emergency meeting.

With Jason and Tim’s conspiracies now public knowledge, Alfred and Bruce have become privy to Dick’s current… predicament. Still, both also have outside duties calling for them as well. Much like Tim, the outside world cannot know of the Wayne family’s dilemma.

Sweet Damian– Dick’s pride and joy– is too young to be on “Bird Watching” duty. 

Busy at school, Damian’s away from the Manor’s current nervous energy. Having already made his _displeasure_ at being left out of the older boys’ conspiracies known, Jason has to delicately leave his youngest brother out of any arousing problems. He can’t risk Damian inserting himself too much in Dick’s illness _(not drugs, not toxin, not poison)_ and miss too much school (and too much of his childhood, as Dick would say).

Feet pounding underneath him, Jason tears through the Manor. Thundering from floor-to-floor, Jason searches fervently for the lost bird.

(Should he call and ask Bruce for help?) 

“Fucking, Goddamn,” Jason hisses under his breath, “Dickhead isn’t here.” 

Opening doors and flicking on lights, Jason feels as if he’s searched through every room in the Manor at least three times over. 

(No… He mustn’t let Bruce know he’s misplaced Goldie already.)

Anger and– worst of all– concern course through his veins. As he makes his way through the labyrinth-like hallways, Jason finds himself tapping his hand in repetitions of three. (Did he pick that up from Dick? Maybe. He’s noticed him do it on routine over the past few weeks.) 

Trying to slow his heart rate down, Jason counts and holds his breath. Lungs expand and freeze. Peace fails to come immediately.

While not one to act dramatic, Jason cannot help but replay Dick’s odd behavior over and over again in his head. (Why didn’t he kidnap Dick sooner?)

Sure, the guy’s often excitable and generally has a (suspiciously) jovial nature, but Dick’s not erratic or aloof. 

_His chaotic apartment. Disattached actions. Mood swings._

Jason knows what depression is, and he’s seen the symptoms in Dick– lethargy, lack of appetite, apathy… But he had noticed more too. 

_God, why’d he wait so long to help Dick? Babysitting his adult brother isn’t enough. He needs someone to talk to, probably. Someone to care._

Except Jason did care— _does_ care.

Soft steps let Jason know of a new search partner.

Touching Tim’s elbow in greeting, Jason nods his head forward and picks up pace.

(The emergency Wayne Enterprise meeting either must’ve ended early, or Tim saw Jason’s flurried, frantic messages.)

Walking together silently, Tim quickly strides beside Jason, fully joining in his search for Dick.

  
Scouring the mansion, Dick’s nowhere to be found. Time stretches on, and it feels as though the two of them have been searching for hours without luck.

Trying to remain positive, Tim says, “Maybe he went outside for a stroll. He might be back soon.” 

His shaking voice and downturned mouth show signs of his own worry– fearfulness of _what’s going on_. 

(Because what is going on? Their older brother disappears for a few months and comes back acting slightly off? If Jason were more paranoid or believed conspiracy theories more… God, he wonders what he’d think.)

Sighing, Jason puts his hand on Tim’s shoulder, trying to silently offer comfort to his younger brother. 

Softly, Jason banters, “And here I was, ready to drag him back to Leslie’s clinic when he decides to go on a _walk_ , of all things.”

Earning a smile, Tim shoots Jason a timid grin and nods.

“Yeah, he’ll be back soon. It’s only a walk after all.”

Except it’s not _only_ a walk because buildings blur around Dick. Air whooshing past his ears, shrieking like a tea kettle and blowing through his hair. 

His hands grip handlebars– is he practicing gymnastics?– and the hard plastic offers zero give as he grips onto it for dear life.

Closing his eyes, Dick feels at peace as he flies through the air, wind in his hair and sweet nothingness weighing him down. 

It takes a rock and flipped wheels for him to remember that he’s driving— or _was_ driving— his motorcycle. ( _Where had he been going?_ Dick wishes it were to the beach. Maybe he can change routes now and go.)

Huh, that’s odd. Dick realizes that the sun isn’t usually underneath him.

A moment ticks by, and suddenly gravel digs into his hands, blood splatters his lips, and sirens ring in his ears. Laying on his back, Dick tries blinking but can’t feel the weight of anything.

The world goes silent for a moment as blood rushes to his ears and black spots dance in his sight.

“— oh my God, oh my God, oh my—”

Someone screams. Dick doesn’t know who. He doesn’t recognize the voice or even where it’s coming from. _Is he the one screaming?_

A hand grabs his wrist and raises it up. Dick’s unable to move though, so as the man releases his wrist, it falls limp to his chest. 

“Unresponsive, 29-D-1,” someone calls loudly. 

How many people are there?

Hands grip Dick’s chest, pushing down in some sort of rhythm and suddenly Dick doesn’t feel quite alive as his eyes fall shut.

With his eyes closed, it’s impossible to even imagine a future.

When his eyes open, he sees Damian crying in a plastic chair beside him and a nurse at the foot of his bed.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Grayson?”

Words must escape his lips, or she’s especially talented at reading minds, because the next thing Dick remembers is sitting up in his bedroom at Wayne Manor.

Bruce replaces Damian at his bedside, hand tucked in Dick’s, and the feeling of safety thrums within Dick.

_Something isn’t right._ But Dick ignores it in favor of soaking in ~~his father’s~~ Bruce’s company.

A phone call breaks the peace, but he’s already lost to the sanctuary of his thoughts.

With a sudden appointment arranged, puzzle pieces finally begin to fall together.

* * *

It takes everything within Jason to calm his slow, bubbling rage.

Receiving the urgent phone call from Gotham Central and hearing about Dick’s recent vehicular adventures nearly sent him into a pit frenzy.

_Who gave Dick access to the garage? Jason certainly had not._

Dragging Dick from the hospital nearly gave him a heart attack too. _He’s lucky his injuries aren’t worse._

Fury. Worry. Anxiety.

Buzzing nerves leave Jason pacing in Leslie’s office where Bruce, him, and Dick sit waiting. Rather than locate his half-lucid brother to a strange facility, Leslie _graciously_ allows Dick’s appointment to take place at her office. 

(She’s worried about him too.)

Dick’s seated rather precariously on the paper-covered exam table. His eyes fall closed and open every few seconds. Falling like autumn leaves, slow as the Arctic’s glaciers, and as gentle as a turtle-dove. (His blank expression scares Jason more and more the longer he stares at him.)

Leaning against the counter, the neurologist and Leslie look at Jason’s list incredulously. 

Over the past few weeks, Jason had stalked Dick like a jealous ex. _As Shakespeare would say, stalked him like a murderer._ Following the neurologist‘s request from the initial appointment, Jason wrote a list of everything atypical with Dick’s actions.

On that list, Jason had logged any and all abnormalities he spotted in his older brother. (As the list grew and grew, fear ate Jason alive. The longer it became, the sicker he felt.)

The neurologist and Leslie stand halfway outside the office door. Whispering conspiracies to one another, horror laces Leslie’s voice and Jason catches the solemn expression decorating the neurologist’s face.

Barely audible, Leslie quietly tells the neurologist, “This isn’t something that just develops overnight. It appears that he has a rather far developed case. It must have taken months for it to progress.” 

Millions of thoughts rush to his head. Impossible. Insane. _Who let this happen? For what to progress?_

Cutting in, the neurologist admits, “There’s not much research on the disease, but it is genetic…” Pausing, he meets eyes with Bruce, then continues saying, now for the Waynes to hear, “If we happened to have family medical records for him…”  
  


Nausea settles. Head swimming. _Why Dick? Why anyone from the family?_

“Before I make any judgment, we need to compare Mr. Todd’s notes with the typical symptoms.”

Paper crinkles underneath Dick as he shifts on the medical table. Apparently uninterested in the conversation, Dick squirms in his seat. Jason watches as he idly gazes outside the window. Rain makes patterns, and Dick reaches out, tracing the water streaks with his three fingers. _Only three. Always three._

The neurologist, still reading the paper, addresses Jason and Bruce (not Dick, not the patient, not a competent adult).

“Behavior or dramatic personality changes?”

_Obviously. For a former circus acrobat, he’s not naturally as eccentric as one would expect. As of late? Dick seems to be acting on whim half the time. Absentminded. Easily lost. Erratic. Anxious. Happy._

_New habits formed. Tea, never cereal. Never gymnastics. Never martial arts. His daily routine reflects a ghost’s; he drifts from one room to the next with no apparent goal in mind._

“Impulsive, or repetitive behaviors?”

_Three. Everything’s done in repetitions of three. (Un, deux, trois.) Fingers tapping, head shaking, blinking…_

“Decreased self-awareness?”

_Zoning out? Forgetting how he arrives at places?_

_Sometimes he‘s in a conversation and it’s as if he forgets when he’s supposed to respond._

“Loss of interest in normal daily activities?”

_Nightwing. Keeping in touch with friends. Showing up to his (now former) job. All gone._

“Distractibility?”

_Already, Dick’s checked out of this conversation._

“Frequent mood changes and possibly agitation?”

The list continues growing, and Jason’s stomach continues dropping. Sick with fear, he stares at Dick and his blank expression.

“Tremors? Muscle spasms? Poor coordination and balance?”

Dropping papers. Shattered teacups. Tripped limbs.

“It’s much less common, and not something you listed, but has Mr. Grayson had psychiatric symptoms? Hallucinations or delusions?”

Jason snaps his head to the neurologist, and it feels as if his blood is boiling. Steam’s coming out of his ears and green blinds him. _But he’s only asking to reaffirm what_ Jason _wrote on the paper._ (Realistically, Jason knows that there’s nothing wrong with doing his job.)

Mirroring Jason’s own rage, Bruce sits practically vibrating with anger. The one to finally snap, Bruce demands, “So what is it?”

_What is what? What’s wrong with Dick? His precious son? His first-born?_ (Except he’s adopted. There’s not a medical record from his family left. Nothing to link him to any possible genetic disease or concern.)

Fully looking up from Jason’s notes on Dick, the neurologist glances at the two Waynes before settling his look on Dick. 

Now observing the scene, Dick has stopped focusing on the weather and instead watches his hysterical family members distantly.

“The PET scans and his MRI show a likelihood of frontotemporal dementia. His symptoms align almost perfectly with it too.”

Green clouds Jason’s vision, and it takes Bruce holding him back to not lash out fully. 

Besides her colleague, Leslie shuts her eyes, trying to hide tears. Despite having to remain neutral, her heart throbs with the knowledge that the little boy she watched grow up has to suffer.

Quietly, Bruce asks, “What’s the treatment?” 

Deathly silent, his question brings even more weight to the room. Heaviness coats the air, and Jason practically chokes on it. 

“I—“ Leslie says before pausing to look down, “It’s incurable. All we can do is make sure he’s comfortable, but—“

Abruptly, Jason can’t hear her over the sound of buzzing. He feels Bruce softly push him back onto a chair. And, for once in his life, Jason simply lets him. There’s nothing to fight. No one’s making Dick suffer.

Dark spots swim in and out of his vision. Nausea overtakes him, and Jason feels like he’s about to hurl.

Distantly, someone says, “It’ll be okay.”

Except it won’t be okay. His brother's pushing daisies. 

Dancing with the Grim Reaper.

Birds of a feather die together. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In middle school, I had been a fan of Teen Wolf. At the time, I really wanted to become a neurologist because of Stiles and the whole season 3 arc. That’s what put frontotemporal dementia on my radar. Obviously I researched the illness when writing this— especially since I haven’t seen the show in actual years now. 
> 
> My kryptonite? Fics where Dick’s sick or hurt and his family actually love and help him. Sadly, I read too many where it feels like no one cares, and he suffers in silence. Anyway, that’s my justification for why I chose to write this.
> 
> I loved reading all of your guesses! A lot of them made me kick myself for not thinking of it first! User squeek93 had guessed what Dick has correctly, but a lot of you were very close.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Your comments are what motivate me to continue writing. 
> 
> Xoxo


	6. Tulips and Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hollow bones take flight.
> 
> Family’s family, even if not everyone remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want of clarify that this disease doesn’t progress over a few months. This fic probably has medical inaccuracies but also, theoretically, Dick’s had this undiagnosed for longer than the story covers. You don’t have f. dementia and suddenly fall down the rabbit hole of symptoms.
> 
> Hopefully this ties it up nicely though! I begin conducting my research study tomorrow, so I have to wipe my hands of this. New work should be out soon though!

Birds have hollow bones. Light and strong.

Petite. Empty. _Free._

Dick knows he can fly. Someone’s carved out his bone marrow and planted feathers all across his chest and arms.

  
Perched on the roof of the Manor, Dick spreads his wings ( _arms_ ) wide and prepares for flight. 

  
  
_He’s light, strong, and ready for takeoff._  
  


Shaking, Dick’s legs sway underneath him. The water drain creaks as his weight puts pressure on it. Metal cuts into thread-bare socks, but Dick doesn’t feel as his skin slices open. 

  
Freedom sounds so inviting. To be able to soar through the sky and taste the clouds. 

  
Forever a Flying Grayson, Dick wants to remember how it feels to fly on a trapeze— the weightlessness and euphoria that acrobatics brings.  
  
_  
Il est temps de voler._

Millions of daffodils, clovers, and sticks decorate the ground below him. _Or, at least, they will in a few months._ In a few months, the temperature will be above thirty. In a few months, the hot air will personally lift him up. 

Like a hot air balloon, heat rises.

At the moment, Dick concentrates on the cool feeling of the air encompassing him. Lifting his shirt, tickling his skin. _Does he have feathers?_

Cold air doesn’t rise.

Will the sun burn? Will he fall as Icarus did all those years ago?

Something stops him.

But the intense desire to soar through the air stays with a tight grip on his heart.

  
Dick knows he can fly. Even if the restraints of the ground won’t let him.

* * *

For a building as old as the Manor, it’s fairly well insulated. 

Still, that doesn’t stop the chill from seeping into Jason, rattling his bones and spiking his heart rate.

Millions of thoughts swirl through his head.

_Who let this happen?Why did this happen?When–_

A rush of adrenaline has been coursing through his veins for days now. Since the diagnosis, Jason’s been unable to sit down. Unable to rest. Unable to _think_ clearly.

With no solution to Dick’s predicament, Jason knows first-hand how high and low his family’s scouring to find one. 

Wayne Industries has begun pumping money into research. Batman’s been reaching out to every possible resource (Zatana– Mr. Martian– everyone) to find an unorthodox cure. Tim’s personally trying to make an antidote. 

_“Personally” as if he wouldn’t move Heaven and Hell to help his brother, regardless of the situation._

Lo and behold, every Wayne has been behind the scenes looking into any possible cure to solve the problem at hand.

Standing over the kitchen sink, Jason feels sick. Physically ill. Nauseous. Disgusted.

_Frontotemporal Dementia._

Words ringing in his head, Jason stares outside of the window. Snow falls steadily, decorating the sky in a haze of white. Mist swirls in the air, and Jason can hardly see the yard. 

What can he do? It feels as though Jason has nothing to add to the search. He can hardly keep his thoughts straight enough to process the problem at hand.

Elbows on wet metal, a chill takes over Jason. 

Because what happens when…

It doesn’t matter. 

It can’t happen.

Impossible.

He won’t even entertain the worst possible scenario. 

(The most likely scenario.)

* * *

Every dog has its day.

Sometimes, luck seems to shine over the Wayne family, even during strenuous times.

Damian’s dog, Titus, took to Dick’s return home like a bee to honey. Like a butterfly to pollen. Like a chicken to seeds.

Every morning, his cold, wet nose presses to Dick’s chin. Reminding him to wake up. Reminding him to stop dreaming.

Falling down a rabbit hole, sometimes Dick wonders if he really wants to wake up.

Damian often accompanies his dog’s early morning greeting to Dick’s room.

Standing outside Dick’s door, Damian quietly checks to see if today’s going to be a good day. On bad days, Dick looks right through Titus. Gazing blankly at the faraway wall with eyes half-closed and lips turning down.

On bad days, Dick seems to forget his own name. Seems to forget many things. His mouth can hardly form slurred English. Forgetting basic words. Repeating incorrect phrases.

Damian can look past it. He can forget it. Can act as if nothing’s wrong.

“Hello, Richard,” Damian greets. 

Today’s going to be a good day, Damian decides. Today they’re going to go on a walk. Talk like two adults would. (Though Damian’s only hardly broken into adolescence.) 

Today, they’re going to take it one step at a time.

Dick looks up blearily. Looking at Damian, not through him. (A positive sign.) Despite the shadows on his face from the window, Dick even looks more _alive_ than usual.

His mouth opens and closes twice before he forms the words, “Bon après-midi.”

Not wanting to correct him, Damian sighs. It’s fine though. Always fine. Morning, afternoon. Both are so closely related it hardly matters what Dick says. 

_Good afternoon._

At the foot of Dick’s bed, Damian places a hand awkwardly on Dick’s ankle. Trying to help stabilize his older brother.

“Bonjour,” he says, matching Dick.

French. The language of love. 

Sometimes Damian wonders if Dick knows what he’s saying or if it’s one and the same to him at this point.

It doesn’t really matter, though. So long as his older brother’s still here in this life with him.

* * *

Bitter February air shoots straight into Dick’s core, rattling his bones. Almost March but still so far away from spring.

Hollowness aches within him from the inside out. 

_He’s a Russian doll. Open him up and there’s ten more to be found._

Having forgone proper winter apparel, he stands trembling in shorts and a t-shirt. Bare feet planted in icy snow, Dick stares directly into the sky. Numb toes and burning eyes, the sun’s just as bright as any other day. (Better check to make sure, of course.)

Bitter, dry air hugs him, wrapping frigid arms around his torso. Goosebumps spread on his bare skin. _If he were blind, Dick wonders if the bumps would form Braille for him to read._

A slight breeze threads through his hair, but Dick can’t seem to focus on anything but the birds.

Birds, as always. 

Repeating in a loop, it’s difficult to focus on more than three thoughts at a time. 

An apparent theme that consumes his time as of late, the colorful animals abduct his focus. Chirping. Dick’s ears perk with each musical note.

“Jesus, Dickie.”

Hands grip his arms, and suddenly Dick finds himself out of the warm sun. _Warm enough, at least._ He can’t feel anything in his arms, but that’s the price to pay for breathing in clean air. 

_Clean. Nothing’s ever clean anymore. Dirt sticks to his skin, itching and crawling on him._

Something wraps around his frame. It’s not rough. (Not quite soft, either.)

With individual threads unraveling, fraying at the edges, it’s clearly a loved blanket. Though Dick can’t imagine who owns it. 

Someone shoves a soft pillow in his hands— not a pillow, a stuffed elephant. 

Turning the toy in his grasp, Dick pats the head of it thrice ( _un, deux, trois_ ). Dick supposes it should remind him of something or that it has a significance, but he doesn’t really care to remember. _If it were important, he wouldn’t forget it._

Wondering what the fuss is about, Dick blearily looks up at the stranger. 

“You can’t keep going out there,” the faceless man says. His hand rests heavily on Dick’s shoulder. Dragging Dick down, down, down.

Falling down a flight of stairs. Tripping over obstacles. Parachuting from a helicopter.

Gravity overwhelms Dick, so he lets the man drag him.

Voices murmur from across the room. A vibrato of chords. Strumming over one another, playing a symphony orchestra for the audience of one.

A few flat notes shake Dick’s focus and enjoyment of the song, but calmness takes over for him once more.

“It’s not safe.”

But Dick knows they’re wrong. 

Beauty is meant to be enjoyed, even if it means not having any feeling in his toes.

And if it wasn’t safe, then the sky shouldn’t be so inviting. _Then the door shouldn’t be unlocked._

* * *

Snow melts outside and days stretch on, gradually becoming longer. February rolls into March, which eventually becomes April.

Thawing, the ground softens and mud splatters as Dick carelessly walks besides Bruce. Every so often, he steps and misses stone tiles, stumbling into soggy patches of grass.

But that’s okay.

Because, for once, everything feels normal. 

Heaviness doesn’t coat the air, and correct words are repeated. 

Smiling, Dick and Bruce walk together through the yard. Casually discussing nonsense. But the importance of all of nothing feels comforting. It’s a relief.

Recognition sparks in Dick’s eyes, and he’s happy to just chat. Walking with his father, nothing in the world can go wrong.

The band around Bruce’s heart loosens slightly, if only for a moment. It’s as if nothing ever changed.

As if nothing will continue changing.

* * *

Dick watches as colors blend together. 

Women and men come in and out of the house.

A variety of red-heads greet Dick. Each one stretches a smile tightly across their face, all with frowning eyes.

“You didn’t say how bad it was, Jason.”

Voices whisper, trying to outdo the next one in quietness. And something wet comes out of the seated lady’s mouth. Crying. (Such a beautiful day shouldn’t inspire tears.) Her eyes pour rain, thick rivets down her face.

It’s been too long since Dick last went on a hike. 

One with overbearing trees dwarfing him. Wild animals scuttling through thick bushes. Rushing rivers and breathtaking waterfalls.

His neck would be unforgiving the day after, but Dick always seems to keep his eyes to the sky. Watching for animals. Watching for the sun to set. Watching. Always watching.

A few flying men come by the house as well. 

Reminiscent of long forgone hikes, Dick puts a crick in his neck looking at them. (Maybe he shouldn’t have decided to lay on the floor during their visit. Maybe he should’ve stood to meet their eyes.)

One insists his name is Uncle Clark, though Dick knows his uncle’s name is actually _Rick_. (Even Dick can remember that.)

That one doesn’t try feigning a smile. His eyes cry dryly.

Dick doesn’t know how to remedy that.

* * *

A lot of Damian’s first-experiences center around Dick. 

He’s the one who showed Damian how to enjoy life. How to be a hero. How to have fun. 

How family should treat each other.

Damian doesn’t regret a lot of what he does in life. 

No. Drake deserves water poured into his coffee. (Honestly, that much caffeine in a day isn’t healthy anyway.) And other than his petty ( _empty_ ) arguments with the Replacement, Damian’s grown from the error of his ways.

The ah Ghuls are a proud group of people. Damian knows his place in life. He knows his place as heir to Bruce’s legacy. But he also knows what Nightwing meant— _means_ — to Richard.

Damian knows how he needs to continue that legacy.

So, a lot of Damian’s firsts revolve around Richard. The man who taught him empathy. 

And he’s trying to return that favor, but it’s difficult. 

It’s difficult to talk to someone who doesn’t always _hear_ . It’s difficult to love someone who doesn’t always understand _why._

It’s not supposed to be like this.

Still. 

Damian continues trying because that’s how family treats one another. 

Because that’s what his older brother— his hero— taught him.

* * *

Growing up, Dick always wanted a flower garden.

Sure, there’s one at the Manor. But he wanted a smaller one. Something he could maintain himself.

Back in the circus, his mother always had a potted plant in their small trailer. 

Tulips. Orange and vibrant. 

Sometimes the flowers would wilt and dry up, but when that happened, she inevitably would replace it with a placeholder plant until tulips were back in season.

Strong fragrances filled the trailer at all times, and the flowers alone seemed to brighten up the inside effortlessly.

“C’mon, Dick,” a boy quietly says, “You just have to pick up and swallow them.” 

Delicately placed on a plate, three pills blink up at Dick. Baby powder blues and electrifying yellow meet his eyes. Colorful flowers against a white surface.

Not orange. Those aren’t tulips.

Someone shifts beside him, disrupting his vision.

Gently touching Dick’s hand, the stranger nudges Dick’s fingers towards the pile of pills. 

“It’s been half-an-hour, maybe–”

“You know what happened last time,” a new voice cuts in.

The boy sighs.

Dick wonders when tulips will be back in season now. Hopefully soon.

* * *

Weeks turn into months. And those months drag on.

A decrease in vigilante activity hits both Gotham and Blüdhaven, and the citizens have taken note of it.

Crime rates spike, but Bruce cannot find it in himself to care. 

His eldest is suffering, as well as his other boys, and there’s not a solution in sight.

With Gotham becoming even more of a cesspool for theft, murder, and everything in between, Bruce and Tim pour over resources looking for answers. 

The cave— damp and moist as ever— compiles research. Stacks of files and textbooks take over former mission reports and action plans. 

Kevlar’s traded in for reading glasses, and suddenly, Bruce feels his age.

_An age Dick will unlikely—_

No. That’s not something to dwell on.

* * *

Robust robins chirp outside of Dick’s window. 

Orange-bellied creatures hip, hip, hopping in the early morning sun. 

Intense rays brighten his room, and Dick lays curled in his bed. Content to bask in the lovely weather, albeit indirectly.

While soaking in the August sun, a multitude of emotions overtake Dick. None he can accurately describe, though the rush feels overwhelming. 

Windows and birds. Birds and robins. Robins and windows.

Dick loves birds. (Or, at least, he feels like he does.) 

Such beautiful creatures. So happy. _(Heureux, feliz, glüchlich.)_ Always happy.

He recalls someone named Robin. Someone with a nice smile. And dark hair. Blue eyes? (Maybe they were green.)

Dick closes his own eyes. (Which he is certain are blue.) He supposes it doesn’t matter if he knows a bird named Robin. Nothing _really_ matters anymore. At least, not when Tuesdays blend into Fridays, and time isn’t real. 

_Dick can’t seem to brew coffee without having stirred salt into it._

Dick’s falling through life holding a broken clock and carrying too many thoughts to comprehend.

Gradually, despite the birds having momentarily distracted Dick, happiness overcomes him, causing his sorrow to become as scarce as hen’s teeth. 

Today, a kind stranger smiled at him and offered to cook him breakfast. 

(Dick doesn’t remember his exact words, of course, but he won’t forget the man for his generosity.)

Birds chirp. Tea fills his cup. _Happy thoughts freeze his head._

Dick feels like a puppet and the strange skunk man’s his marionettist. He’s fine with that. Perfectly happy to have such a nice man guide his actions.

_Is he even real? Even human?_

Darkness ebbs at his mind for a brief moment, causing him to lose hold of the blue porcelain (now-shattered) teacup. 

Blankly, Dick stares at it in shock. _Who broke that?_

Not a second passes before a little boy falls to the floor, cleaning it up.

_This house sure has some nice people. So helpful. So kind._

The boy whispers something to a shadow in his room. Everso large and imposing, the shadow watches the two of them intently.

As present as his lamp, Dick’s nearly certain that this shadow visitor has been with him forever and always. 

After all, Dick can’t seem to remember a moment without him present.

Even after the shards of porcelain disappear, the boy stays, and two– three? four? five?– people creep into his room to join them.

Quietly, Dick says, “Avoir la pêche.” Earning a smile from the shadow, Dick shuts his eyes feeling accomplished. 

He doesn’t know why the shadow’s there, but he certainly is happy to keep it company.

Idly, Dick wonders what’s for breakfast and where the robins outside his window went. 

It’s only early evening. They can’t have gone too far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words cannot emphasize how thankful I am for all of you reading this!
> 
> I love reading all of your comments! And I appreciate all of you for sticking with this!
> 
> Lots of love! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave any thoughts below! 
> 
> Can you guess what illness Dick has? (Hint: It’s not fictional and is pretty serious.)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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